


Age of Comets: The Seal is Sewn

by TastyCake



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Betrayal, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Freeform, Incest, Love, Magic, Morally Ambiguous Character, Native American/First Nations Legends & Lore, POV Multiple, Politics, R Plus L Equals J, Romance, Sex, Slow Burn, Story Arc, eventual jonerys
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:01:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25673254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TastyCake/pseuds/TastyCake
Summary: R’hllor, The Seven, and the Old Gods. Once, all magic in the world stemmed from one commonality. This being traversed continents, gifting life with it’s power. Preluding the Age of Heroes, the progenitor had two children with wills so powerful, their spirits would burn for endless lifetimes - reincarnating again and again throughout the ages.As the progenitor’s comet appears again, the next incarnates will rise. Day and Night. Fire and Ice. Dragon and Wolf.(Or, an AU, semi canon-divergent fic where the stories of Jon and Dany parallel lore from a popular anime, in the style of ASoIaF)
Relationships: Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister, Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth, Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, Jon Snow/Ygritte, Khal Drogo/Daenerys Targaryen, Robb Stark/Margaery Tyrell
Comments: 9
Kudos: 11





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This might be my most cracked out, cringe idea for a story. Still, I want to put this out. I know how everything will go.
> 
> Lemme know how this went! Cheers.

**Prologue**

**~**

This was it.

He was at the end of a road paved in blood, first plowed by the crowned prince with winter roses at the tourney in the shadow of a melted keep. Here, at the end, it was packed tight with the bodies of reliable men. Easy enough to travel on for those who followed in the wake of its creation. How long could Westeros tread on this path until it, too is stomped back into the Earth and out of memory. It is the fate of men he thinks. They continue down the road before them, never questioning how it got there, or what sacrifices were made for it. They use it again and again until it is used so much that no one remembers what it was made for. No one can remember where it started from, or where it ends.

So, like always, they pave it over again.

For Eddard Stark, the road ended in Winterfell. When the soil was first paved, the pack was together. Returning now, he had lost three wolves, and gained one pup.

The burden of the Stark name bore into his soul so deeply now, he cannot summon the strength to raise his eyes away from the swaddled babe he cradled in his arms. The linens wrapping the infant child were slung around his left shoulder and taught around his right underarm. He was the image of a parent in refuge, yet he is also Ned Stark, Lord of Winterfell.

That's what this child is, he thinks: a refugee of war. Although Ned knows this babe is so much more. The significance of this newborn is not lost on him, though he feels as such, a silent wolf in the winds of winter.

Damned be this rebellion, however terrible it seemed, it was necessary. Besides his personal stakes, the realm yearned for freedom from the Mad King’s horrible reign. He had thought so, thinking back to the beginning.

In hindsight, it was all for what he held now, and after all the blood spilled from the very onset of the war, he was unsure if he would have made the same decision.

His Father and eldest brother had both perished before he joined Robert. When word of Lyanna reached him, he leaped South, straight into Hell to save his sister. He was no noble hero, and he would live with whatever consequences came after if it meant he could still rescue Lyanna.

Even after the Sword of the Morning met his dishonored end at the foot of the tower, he would endure the choices he made.

* * *

His sister’s anguished cries echoed all around the air then.

Her shrieks pained his heart but gave a grim hope – there was still a chance at rescuing her.

When Howland pulled his dagger from Ser Dayne’s neck, Ned wasted no time in climbing up the tower. He felt his legs buckling and still he climbed.

Faster. He _had_ to reach her. He let himself hope against hope that the pack would not die, that he would return to his brother a savior. Stumbling into the Tower of Joy, a monument of mockery, he was bloody and caked in war.

His heart threatened to stop the moment he laid eyes on her, his dear sister.

“Lyanna,” he breathed scarily upon the sight.

Hurried breathes. “Ned? Ned, is that you?” she asked.

He remembers rushing to her side, calling a maester, for water, pleading to the Old Gods there was some merit a poor mortal such as himself could conjure up. He wished for the strength to grant a miracle beside his dying sister.

“Listen to me Ned,” she said. He gaped at all the blood she has lost, but still she pleads to him.

“You have to protect him. You have to protect him, Ned.” she said.

“I don’t understand, sister! You’re not... you aren't going to die.” he soothed, voice quaking in doubt. How weak he felt. You cannot lie to your sister now, can you? She was dying, and Lyanna had already suffered enough. He had to find _some_ way to stop her from dying. It was life, or death for them all.

Should she perish now, the realm would be in mortal peril.

However, not from fire and blood.

He could not fathom the horrors that would be unleashed should she die here, so far from the North.

She coughs raggedly and continues. Pulling her brother so close that Ned feels her breath on his ear, she speaks what might be her final words.

“The wolf,” she exhaled.

Eddard Stark could not hide the ghastly look on his face.

Was he to perish after all, after coming so far?

Again, Lyanna takes a shuddered breath and speaks “-the wolf... is in _him_ now,” is all she can manage to get out.

No… it could not be. Did Rhaegar take it from her, that faithless sod?

A terrible ploy begins to unravel itself in Eddard’s thoughts. Could this have been the reason that he stole her? _How_ could he even know?

“Why, sister?!” he pleads, “you… what are you trying,” but the words fell flat on his tongue. Realization passes on his brow, furrowed with so many emotions. Lyanna was aware she was going to die. 

A twinkling of life reappears in her eyes like a spark, its fuse short but bright. She must carry on and tell him what he needs to learn. Her lips part again, desperately whispering to her brother the information she needed him to know. She could count on her dear Eddard to see things through.

As she struggled on, total, and pure shock rested upon the visage of one Ned Stark. He could barely manage listening, fighting down the urge to ask a thousand and one questions.

Abruptly, the trance was broken by her final plea, the same words she spoke when he first entered this forsaken room.

“Protect him, Ned…”

She was gone.

No more did her breath waft on his ears. No more, did her chest shudder and heave to keep her going.

As if on cue, a babe’s wail echoed through the hall. Eddard turned; disbelief was his state.

All his questions evaporated, as he was handed the answer. The small, and terribly aching truth. The baby in his clutches softened its cries as Ned held him. He did not know if he had ever been as rigid as he was then. Eventually, the cries stopped, and the baby boy opened his eyes for the first time. Newborn blue.

To confirm the truth, Ned carefully pulled away the linens around the child’s head and neck, and gently turned the boy around for inspection.

Where the back of his neck met the base of his head, the faint yet dreadfully noticeable marking, colored a shade barely darker than pink flesh, gave Ned no room for doubt.

What Lyanna said was so, the seal was sewn.

For ages, the Starks carried their burden faithfully. After all, it was the stem from which they gained the fealty of the great Northern houses. Endlessly, nobly, each container bore the curse to contain it. Every generation without fail, and Lyanna was not to be an exception, it seemed. She performed the rite herself, as shed bled, knocking on death's door.

Tears dropped from Ned’s eyes. Her duty had been short and valiant, just as her life. Lyanna’s honor outshone his own.

He stood, lifting away from the pain of her passing. His resolve should be steel, as was his sister's. He had his duty.

“We ride for Winterfell,” Ned spoke to Howland, but perhaps it was a command for himself.

* * *

Through the gates, he rode now. Hardly a victor’s return when he came to a stop in the yard. His lady was waiting for him somewhere.

‘If only she could wait forever,’ Ned thought. He dreaded their inevitable confrontation. Would she ever be able to forgive him? For believing the lie waiting for her, or for the act of lying if he broke down and told her?

It was much easier deciding this on the journey North. 

* * *

Ned took a swig of water from his canteen. It had been a long road from the Tower of Joy. Starfall was a risky detour, but a necessary gamble. They wouldn't survive long without provisions. Thankfully, House Dayne showed mercy. Returning the sacred relic of their house was the least Ned could do, given the transgressions at the tower. Most importantly, the child would not survive without proper care. Traveling the Roseroad was daunting, even as the fires of rebellion turned to embers, but they must make haste. His party made camp a league from the main road, the sky was colored dusk. Smells of bark and cooking meat meandered through the air.

There was much reflection done that evening. Eddard Stark never considered himself a critical tactician, he could bear the brunt of petty lords and whimpering smallfolk for hours and fight his battles as any nobleman should be expected to. However, it was with great effort he focused, and little ground gained as he toiled over the subject of the babe in his care. Facing the dilemma head on, he motioned over to the sheltered tarps, where a wet nurse from Starfall was doting on his nephew. She was rocking him gently, in slow motions to and fro.

“May I see him for a while?” he asks.

Without pause the wet nurse removed the sling from her shoulder and let Ned hold the swaddling. He thanks her, forgetting her name a moment.

“Wylla, milord.”

Outside, the evening air was beginning to chill. Ned took the babe to the campfire, where his only surviving companion after taking the skirmish at the Tower joined him. They sit together, the warmth granting a reprieve from the soreness they feel but does little to quell the uneasiness around them. For a while, there is not a word, and Ned’s mind drifts to Lyanna.

She believed in her brother. He must protect him, as she commanded. He must shield the life Lyanna gave to bring into this world, no matter how complicated the implications. He thinks of his lady wife Catelyn, who would have been Brandon’s to bring to court if the world were just. He pictures his own child, surely a bundle in his lady’s care now. Lyanna’s legacy laid peacefully, unaware of the long road North ahead. The child stirred now, awake. Baby blue eyes like the glassy reflection of the pond within the Godswood. Quiet as a freshly snowed field. So young to be so alone.

“Stark,”

Ned finally pulls his vision away from the babe. Howland Reed sits idle in front of their campfire. The shadow it cast dancing on the measly tent they have constructed for reprieve from the woods that night. Howland seemed to be searching for his next words. Ned was a warrior to be true, but after so much war, he looked forlorn. Eddard was a man passed his twentieth name day now, a being in the prime of his youth. That man existed before the war though, before the tower. Now, Ned seemed so, so tired. His spirit could float off if he were not concentrating.

“It’s not my place,” he starts, “but…” Ned’s eyes and slightly agape lips deny Howland the questions he wants to ask.

“He is my blood; it doesn’t matter what else the boy is,” Ned states matter-of-factly. He hugs the child just a little tighter. “I’m taking him to Winterfell. I will raise him as my own,” he declares.

“And Robert? You cannot deny the reality of his reaction when he learns. It’s quite possible he will.”

Ned snarls at such an outcome. “Robert will not learn. I will make sure of it.” His words carry weight. Ned Stark will not betray Lyanna’s trust. Never. All else be damned.

Howland’s jaw shifts in contemplation at his words.

“That’s fine and all, my lord. There’s just…” 

“What?”

Eyes lock again. Both men know that Ned is not to be challenged. The Lord of the Neck persists with trepidation. “The world has never known of his ilk… born of Stark and Targaryen blood,” Howland lets his words settle in, carefully thinking how to continue.

“The boy will have a heritage unlike any have seen. His blood could signal more threats than we know of.”

Ned just sees a babe, still and powerless. There is no time to consider such things.

“Aye, perhaps,” is his only acknowledgment. It was fickle to think of consequences. Until they made it back North, nothing was certain, not even if the child would live.

Near them, the party who accompanied them did not stir from their tents, but Ned had to be careful with his words. No one could know, not even Cat. Howland was a trusted friend, who could hush his words when need be, sleuth and tactful. Ned would choose not to say anything at all if the truth was to be kept under wraps for now.

Yet…

‘Born of Stark and Targaryen blood,’ the words lingered in his ears. No one would learn of this if Ned could help it. Still, he feels the significance. The Stark line was old and strong, going back to the First Men and before. Their magic was always powerful, used to seal the Wall, to fight the children of the forest, and all the ancient monsters of the land. They were even successful in protecting the vestiges of the Old Gods when the Andals came, hacking away at weirwoods only to be met with shattered steel, not splintered bark. Tales of powerful warriors using the magic of the North in the Age of Heroes were treasured histories to Northmen; before such practices slowly faded away, replaced by the swinging of armaments and the ways of knighthood.

The magic was almost lost now. Ned had no aptitude for the family gift, only Benjen, the youngest of his siblings, and Lyanna, rest her soul, had the use. They must be thicker wolves than he.

Back to his bearings, Eddard gazed longingly at his nephew’s form. Yes, perhaps this child had a great fate before him. He did not know of what, but destiny seemed to have a vice around this babe all the same. 

“I will call him Jon, after Lord Arryn of the Vale. He fostered Robert and I as boys. There will be no qualms of where he is from if he hails a name North of the trident,” said Ned.

Howland’s lips flatten, and he exhales through his nose. “And if you do, raise him as your own boy as you say… What will you tell them of the boy’s mother? Surely you don’t mean to raise him as a bastard?”

Ned does not waver. Looking back at the tarps where he took Jon from Wylla. “Better raised a bastard, than dead.”

“And if he awakens the dragon’s eye?” Howland persists, “What then? It was said the prince had the power.”

Eddard raises his voice, “Then I take the chance!” As he resolved before. He has his duty.

“Ned Stark, fathering a bastard boy while off to war,” pondered the crannogman. “They will say Robert wore off on you.” Howland Reed shakes his head in bewilderment.

“Perhaps they will,” Ned offers. “But I am Lord of Winterfell now. The Warden of the North should have little concern of petty offenses. I will be a liege lord they follow, not prod at behind closed doors.”

“Yes, Lord Stark," Howland submitted.

The fires get an open silence to fill with crackles. Ned sees the way now. He has a plan, but he dreads facing the future. Catelyn will never forgive him.

“And I, my lord… what would you have me do?” Howland asked.

The lord of house Reed is aloof, but loyal. Ned knows he can trust the man’s word. After all, the renown of the austere Starks is closely followed by the secrecy of the swamp lords.

“You shall return to Greywater Watch. Keep the truth to yourself. I will know how it got out if I hear whispers. Besides, I am not the only one with a requited love to attend. Form where I sit, your neck teeters closer to the razor's edge,” Ned states, motioning to the tents made camp.

“Aye, then," Howland chuckles. "We should get some rest my lord. There is the whole of Westeros before us.”

Ned nods.

Winterfell felt a lifetime away. If Ned could help it, he’d never go South of Moat Cailin again. He wondered if the Old Gods would grant such a blessing.

* * *

She had slapped him. Ned felt like he earned it. For now at least, he could rest and prepare. The road was freshly laid, complete.

Now, it must be maintained. He’d push onward, without complaint. If he could help it, no man would seek to pave it over until his days were done.

Sadly, the Old Gods spare little of their mercy. 


	2. Ned I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Who are we, who are so blessed to share our stories?'
> 
> Ned and Benjen speak. The outcome of the future rides on the decisions of the present, and lessons of the past.

**Ned**

**~**

Presently, Eddard Stark, Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell had returned home from war a fortnight ago. Things were going mostly as he predicted. The Starks had lost much, but would recoup strength in time, surely so after being blessed with his healthy boy, Robb.

Catelyn could hardly face him still, and he only hoped that the wounds he inflicted within her heart could be filled with the love of their children. It was for the best, perhaps not for him, but it was hard to weigh his marriage over the stability of the seven kingdoms.

Baby Jon proved to be resilient, and survived the trip North under Ned’s watchful eye. When he and Howland parted ways, Ned’s nerves had calmed enough to bid his friend a warm goodbye, entrusting the only other man in the world that knew the truth to keep his word. Now, Benjen will be the third. 

Today was the day then. He waited now, by the weirwood tree in the Godswood of Winterfell’s great castle walls. Benjen was to join the Night’s Watch soon. Ned knew it was an honor to behold. After all, the Starks have protected the North and by proxy the seven kingdoms since the Wall's construction. They were the stalwart protectors. The watchers on the wall. Still, he would miss him.

“You’d think it a Southron Summer, how nice the woods are today,” Benjen announced upon his arrival. “You wanted words, brother?” he asked.

“Aye, Ben. Before you take the black, I have to tell you of things that happened in the war.”

Benjen’s cavalier attitude left him. “So… this is the time then. You’ll tell me what you promised you would?”

“Indeed brother. Come, sit with me.”

The Stark men sat together, perched on the growing roots of the ashen white wood, facing the spring waters that had provided life in Winterfell for ages, sanctuary in the tundra desert. The winds were still, and the red leaves of the great tree cast a wide shade on the forested hallows of the Godswood. The grandeur of Winterfell was lost before the natural serenity of this place. No longer Ned loved it so much.

“Where do I begin…” Ned pondered audibly. Benjen listened, waiting for his brother to find the words. Eddard pursed his lips. After some thought, he began his tale.

“I suppose it starts with Jon.”

Benjen straightened. Ned never spoke of Jon unless out of necessity. “So, the boy does play a part. I figured he might.”

“What we speak of here, Ben… it cannot leave our tongues again. Ever. Not until Jon comes of age.”

For some reason, Benjen’s nerves come to life. Whatever comes next, his body anticipates it. “Of course, Ned.”

Eddard strokes his beard with his hand, thumbing his chin in contemplation, and continues. “It concerns the wolf.”

Benjen sighs deeply. Seems he was expecting this. “I feared it could come to this. Was it released then?” he asked.

“No. Before she passed, Lyanna was able to perform the rite. She transferred the seal, beast intact.”

Relief, then doubt crossed Benjen’s brow. “Then… who has it now? Surely not you, Ned?”

“No. Jon has it.”

The younger Stark’s back bowed, leaning in to deepen his concentration.

“Your bastard?”

“Aye. That's the story.”

“...Story?”

No turning back.

“She was not the only one atop that tower.” he confessed.

Ned studied the face of his brother. Eventually, Ben seemed to grasp the words.

“He's Lyanna's..."

Ned watched in real time, as the realization washed over. Ben was always a quick witted fellow.

"She still did her duty. She saved countless lives. Yet…”

Ned imagined that Benjen was asking himself all the questions that lingered in his own mind, from the last sight of their sister to this very moment.

“She simply knew," Ned interrupted. "She entrusted everything to him, and affirmed that we would see to the rest. That is all. She was certain that he would be able to, must have sensed it somehow, and I trusted her.”

Silence gave both brothers room to mourn, then.

After their interlude, Benjen was the first to resume session. “Guess she was correct. I just pity the boy. Will it harm him? Is the link strong?”

“I believe it to be. After all, it's held this long without trouble.” To confirm it though, he needed to prod Ben’s knowledge. “I don’t have what you and Lyanna do - what Mother and Father had. You are all that is left of our House’s magic. Lyanna tried to help me understand before she passed. She told me things that I can’t make sense of, not the way you might.”

Under normal circumstances, sharing the secrets of magic was taboo in the North, even to your own blood - an old creed from times long past.

“I’ll tell you Ned. I must at this point. If your children come to have the gift, you will need the knowledge to guide them."

Eddard nodded solemnly. He focused his ears for whatever Benjen may tell him. It appeared that more than one secret was coming to light today.

As a boy, Ned was frustrated when he was denied the knowledge given to Lyanna, and then Benjen. He had no use of the family’s gift. He was an inert to it, like his older brother, Brandon. It was difficult to understand then, why some of his siblings could have a knowledge deemed forbidden to him. Only as a man now, does he comprehend why secrets would be kept from their own blood. For the great Houses, secrets are made for protection, not exclusion. Every secret guards a weakness.

Benjen seemed to be deliberating where to start. “It’s called _Aur’ena_ … it’s a magic, as you described, that dates to the First Men. It is an attunement with a natural power that every manner of living thing possesses,”

He was doing it then; he would peel away the secrets for the good of his family. Ned may not have the gift, but he had to understand it now.

Benjen went on. “This power deepens the greater the conscious mind, and your physical condition grow. Passed down through bloodline, it stems from parent to child, on and on. In the beginning, certain clans of First Men showed signs of greater control of this power. It was their strength, and eventually, the weaker clans were culled, or forced into subjugation.”

With this, the younger Stark stood, and began pacing the grounds around the overgrown roots of the weirwood.

“By the time the Andals came to Westeros, the occurrence of _Aur’ena_ had waned until it only appeared sporadically, in houses that date back to the First Men. It's suspected that over time, as betrothals to rival clans and houses mixed types of _Aur’ena,_ that certain _aura_ were incompatible with each other. These new _aura_ were just as potent, but the power could not be wielded.”

“Why would that be so?” Ned questioned. Benjen stooped down to pick up bark chippings, fallen from a nearby trunk of a Northern oak tree. He held one in his hand while pocketing the others.

“As you know,” he continued. “Houses wed this way to forge alliances, garner peace and secure political stability across the land, here and further beyond the Narrow Sea. We still do to this day, of course.”

Ned pictured Cat, the woman who, in a different life, would have wed Brandon.

“Truth be told, there was another reason. It was thought that mixing different _aura_ would make powerful offspring, attuning them to even greater strength. If the _Aur’ena_ of one house, that conquered entire regions with its abilities, could be combined with another of similar renown, perhaps one could attain multiple _auras,_ becoming unimaginably strong. Many houses attempted this...”

“But?” Ned supplied.

“It was the opposite.” Benjen followed by holding out a single twig of the wood he had picked up. “See this bark here. Imagine it as your _Aur’ena_. It takes your will to manipulate it. The more isolated this power is, the more malleable it becomes.” Benjen demonstrated what he meant by snapping the twig in two.

“See? Hardly an effort,” he claims, and then speaks on. “You can already guess where I’m going with this,”

Putting several strips of bark from his pocket into his hands, he clasps them together the same way he held the first twig. “If I put this many together…”

Benjen gripped the ends of the bundle he held and tried with all his might to snap them in one go. Grunting with effort, he managed to leave splinters, but not one would snap.

“The harder it is to manipulate,” Ned finishes for him.

“Aye. This is what happens. Should too many _aura_ be present in their blood, a person cannot use their _Aur’ena_ to its full potential. In most cases, its rare to use one, even if it’s the original _aura_ of your house. It becomes too difficult to wield. Our wills cannot manipulate the flow. So, the tap runs dry. We lose the ability altogether.”

Puzzled, Ned tries to take it in, slowly forming a picture. Benjen pauses a moment, letting his brother work around the details. Eventually, the Lord of Winterfell has more questions.

“Has it ever worked? Has there ever been one who saw this power realized, who had the use of multiple _aura_?”

Benjen Stark’s lips tighten to a frown. “There’s only ever been one house in all of Westeros to have such power.” He gives Ned a knowing look.

Eddard’s eyes widen.

House Targaryen.

Ned continued to listen as Benjen spun a worrisome tale.

“I couldn’t tell you why, Ned. I can only guess on what history has given us. If the First Men came from Essos, and the Targaryen line hails from the blood of Old Valyria, then it could be that their civilization was the birth place of _Aur’ena._ Maybe not, I do not know for certain. What I do know, and what the realm has known for years, is that for as long as they’ve held power here, the crowned Targaryen line was passed down through mostly incestual means. They’ve married brother and sister, uncle to niece, always to keep the ruling line pure.”

Ned interjects, “Not always, Roberts grandfather wed a Targaryen, did he not?”

“Aye, tis true, and what do you think happens, when a bloodline so isolated joins with another for the first time? What would the children and grandchildren of such a union be capable of, if generations of mixed _aura_ were cleared out in the place of one, potent line?”

Ned imagines the strips of bark that Benjen couldn’t break, slowly removing pieces until enough slack remains for the stack to break in two. The most amount of malleable _Aur’ena_ that he could manage.

“So, it’s true. There is power in King’s blood,” Ned surmised, “It’s not a petty saying to justify their rule. It’s the truth…” He couldn’t have imagined this.

Benjen seemed to confirm it, “I understand the new King is quite the warrior. Tales say he was a demon stag in the battles of the rebellion.”

Ned needed more answers. “If this is so, why the secrecy?” he asks.

Benjen knows that its complicated, he doesn’t have all the answers himself.

“Every magic has its weakness, brother. Every _aura_ has its folly.” Ben gazes at his hands, a foreboding look that Ned doesn’t notice. “The more of your power that is known, the easier it is for your enemies to exploit it.”

That resonates with Ned. Jon’s heritage for one, is much the same. Though now, Ned has much more to concern himself with other than claims to the throne. His brother goes on after a beat.

“Over time, the facts of it all have blurred, as interpretations were twisted by the subjectivity of house lords. As best we could though, those of us who are capable with _Aur’ena_ have a duty to keep its sanctity. To pass it on to its inheritors without fail, lest the great houses crumble away. In House Stark’s case, so that the realm is protected.”

This stirred the brow of Eddard Stark. “You mean… the wall?”

Benjen grimaced. “At first… yes. Among other things.”

‘Other things…’ Ned thought. Until he realized. “The wolf.” He uttered in a whisper.

“Aye.” Benjen confirmed. He sat back down, close to Ned. His brother was the future of house Stark. He must make sure to tell him all he can.

“Our sigil, the direwolf in a snowy plain. Remember what I said before, how _Aur’ena_ resides in all living things?”

Nothing could break Ned’s concentration on Benjen’s words.

“It is said that Bran the Builder raised the wall to defend the realm 8,000 years ago, should the Long Night ever return. If it did, we’d have reassurance.” Benjen watches Ned’s face, keen that this is common folklore for Northmen.

“Aye, so the story says,” Ned concurs.

Benjen honed in ever so slightly. “The story never says of what got _trapped_ , on this side of the wall.”

And Ned immediately knew. He means the wolf, the very same that decorates their banner.

Oh, Lyanna.

All Northmen knew of this beast. The common folk knew a folktale, but the Starks of Winterfell and the other houses of the North learn the truth, once of age. Reigning over the North meant it was their duty to contain it. Ned may not have the gift of magic, of the power that Benjen describes, but he is a Stark. 

Amarok. The First Direwolf. The Grey Demon of Winter.

“The wolf was a beast of extraordinary nature, with prowess so great, it could wield _Aur’ena_ as simply as breathing.”

It was almost unimaginable to him. The stories of the First Men wielding their magic spoke of unfathomable feats. Bran the Builder constructed the Wall. Lann the Clever upheaved Casterly Rock. The first Storm King, Duran Godsgrief controlled lightning at his beck and call. The Southron lands of Dorne were ripped into sands as battles raged from the earliest settlers vying for control of the then, new lands of Westeros. In those times, the magic was so potent that man was said to have complete control of the elements. The wolf was at the same playing field, perhaps even greater.

Ned ponders what that life would be like. If such beings inhabited the lands. Primal, unforgiving. It was a miracle that the First Men were not also the Last Men.

He takes in Benjen’s words. “Perhaps this creature is capable of what you say. Regardless of how it is so strong, the threat is real. It survives to this day, sewn into our very flesh. We seal it within ourselves, as Lyanna did.”

“Our line holds the beast at bay, as Lyanna did,” Benjen seconds this. ‘And Mother before her. Our line holds the beast at bay.”

Ned shudders remembering that day. Maester Luwin was a loyal servant to Winterfell for many years, and he too knew of the wolf. He knew what to do when Lyarra’s days were coming to an end. Fearing the worst, they planned on locking the Godswood off, with Lyarra inside. A desperate plan to keep the beast at bay upon her expiration. Young Lyanna was the only one who was capable of performing the rite, as Benjen was little more than a child of 5 name days, and unto herself no less.

When the day came, Lyanna was defiant. She was young, but adept with her gift, and entered the Godswood to see the deed done. Dangerous as it was, when the sickness finally took Lyarra Stark from this world, the creature was partially freed at her moment of death. If Lyanna was not there, prepared and defiantly stubborn. The wolf would have done much more damage.

A fraction of its essence ran wild, and if the obliterated aftermath of fallen trees and marred dirt around the mangled corpse of their Mother wasn’t terrifying enough, the sight of a bloodied, but quite alive Lyanna Stark of Winterfell, adorned with a gaping wound across her back that she’d hold as a scar for all her life… told them all they needed to know of the creatures wrath. It was an image Ned would never forget.

Now, the woods had returned to life. The fallen trees providing lumber, the grounds replenished, and the corpse buried in the crypts of Winterfell, together with the girl who saved them all, twice - whether the Southron houses knew it or not.

“And now it rests with Jon,” Ned acknowledges. “Has it ever been sewn into a babe?” he asks.

Benjen’s eyes float down to the bottom of his eyelids, heavy with the weight of thought. “I couldn’t tell you.”

“Then we must be careful.”

Benjen stands again. “So we must.”

Eddard rises with him. “I have a request, brother.”

Benjen stands at attention. “A request?”

“Aye. I know the Watch calls to you, and to your heart. But after what we’ve discussed here, I need to ask a great service of you.”

“You are Lord of Winterfell. I will do as you command,” Benjen says.

“I want you to hold off from taking the Black for now.”

Benjen Stark blinks, looking incredulously at his brother. “You’d consign me to an idle station?”

“You’re the only one now who can see to Jon’s safety, and if you’re going to entrust the ways of our magics to an inert like me, I should like to understand all that I can, over time.”

He knows this is selfish, but it must be done. If there’s to be any hope of safeguarding Jon, Benjen is the only one that can show him the way.

Said man is in deep contemplation now, arms perched at his sides and face downcast. He’s stubborn.

“Let me take a keep close to Winterfell at least, so I can save face,” he partitions.

“I’m afraid I can’t promise you that,” Ned starts, to Benjen’s disgruntlement. “I’m not telling you to give up on the Watch. Just… help me here, show me the ways of the things that you’ve spoken of today. Help me rear Jon as my bastard so he can handle his burden when the time comes. You’ll want for nothing here in Winterfell.”

“Want of nothing but my freedom…” Benjen gripes.

Ned gave him an authoritative look.

“10 years, Ben.”

Benjen mulled it over. With a long sigh, he gave his response.

“10 years, you say. Then I can claim some honor for myself?”

“You can have your honor by helping me secure the future of our house. I’ll accommodate you with what I can.” He hadn’t thought it would be so hard to convince him. Surely now, with some of the veil lifted, he could see that this must be done. Eventually, he concedes.

“I suppose it’s not up for debate.”

Ned closed his eyes with relief. “Thank you, Ben.”

As they depart the woods together and enter back into the keep of Winterfell. Ned ponders over what he has learned. ‘The magic of bloods that are incompatible cannot be wielded so easily.’ Perhaps Jon would only have so much to worry about. It’s more than enough to carry a weight as dire as the wolf he jails. If Ned were a betting man, he imagines that there cannot be a greater difference from a wolf to a dragon.

Surely, there can be no greater opposite than a boy of Ice and Fire.

After quiet contemplation, Ned Stark asked a final question. “If those who can use their _Aur’ena_ were knowledgeable on how it can be weakened, why would they risk throwing their power away?”

Benjen answered, after momentary silence.

“Who can say where power truly rests, Ned? Perhaps our way is wrong. We’ve kept to ourselves in the North, in a way not too dissimilar than the Targaryens. Keeping bloodlines pure was all the First Men thought of at a time. Then the Andals came and defeated nearly every clan that followed our path. There is undeniable strength in diversity. They were far more successful, in their way of life as much as their fighting strength. Men conform to the best means of survival. In the Age of Heroes, _Aur’ena_ was our salvation. After the Andal Invasion, we threw that away for nobility, and knighthood. If magic fades from existence over time, then it was meant to be. When Aegon came to Dragonstone, there may have been nothing here to match his might, but all the same, 300 years have passed, and his family line is no more. The Targaryens are all gone.”

Ned slows his pace, watching Ben from behind.

Not all of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spare a review if you'd like to see more! ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)


	3. Ned II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With this, the stage is set - the sky, a blank canvas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ned reflects on what he has lost, and what he's found.

**Ned**

**~**

The pack was bigger than ever.

Nearing a decade since the rebellion, Ned dared to imagine that soon one day, the only threat remaining against the realm would be the winter cold.

Summer had been long and generous, giving him little headache and three more children with Cat.

Robb. Sansa. Arya. Now little Bran. They were all growing up strong, especially Robb and young Arya.

And Jon.

Perhaps that was the one difficulty of the present. Just looking at the poor boy was beginning to wear his nerves of steel into planks of wood. Often these days, he’d see a perfect phantom of Lyanna when Jon was caught in the right light. Eddard hoped that he’d grow into a strong beard, so that Theon and the other boys their age would relent from their teasing. He had a soft face sure, but how many boys of ten namedays could claim themselves grown Northmen?

‘Princess Snow,’ they had become fond of calling him, and for a few moons now. Ned always chided the behavior if he caught them, but seldom could he mask the twinge of his brow when he did so.

He’d kept his word for this long. He shouldn’t falter at mere children.

Cat was another thing. Aye, their marriage seemed to be quite healthy now, but in the months after Ned returned with ‘another woman’s’ child, her chagrin hurt him more than any wound afflicted in battle.

It was difficult to lie to her.

Even more so watching her disdain for Jon fester.

He’d never forget the moment he was closest to outright telling Catelyn.

When Jon was four, he called her ‘Mother’.

Eddard Stark would never lay a hand on a lady, let alone his own beloved.

Still, when he watched her strike the boy with all her adult might, with every shred of scorn she could summon, that’s when his duty seemed hallow.

The realm may no longer be in turmoil. The fires of rebellion may be buried ash, long forgotten.

The truth would bring more harm than good, he thought.

But not then.

Not when he saw an innocent boy suffering. When he watched a developing four-year-old child learn that love was rewarded with contempt.

It broke his heart, watching Jon grow up hating himself.

Gods know what happened when he couldn’t be there.

He hated watching his sister’s legacy grow as an outcast in his own home.

‘ _Better a bastard than dead…’_

After choice words with Cat, he decided he hated himself too.

Since then, he hadn’t outright witnessed her torturing the boy, but he could tell as Jon grew older, withdrawn, overly cautious, no confidence in himself, that the damage had been done.

Irrevocably so.

The only light in the subject of one Jon Snow was Ned’s brother, Benjen.

Ned smiled fully every time Ben came to visit from the keep he’d settled into, because it was the only time Jon seemed to be truly happy.

Ned had made sure to give Benjen the closest land available.

He’d fulfill his end of their little deal made all those years ago very soon. In the corner of his thoughts, Ned wondered how Jon might handle being separated from Benjen after the older Stark joined the Night’s Watch. Ben certainly wasn’t going to be able to visit as often, if at all.

Thankfully, Jon would have Robb.

Ned had been properly shocked when his firstborn son broke open one of Benjen’s practice runes at the age of five, preceding Jon’s seemingly inevitable display of _Aur’ena_ control by a full year.

Eddard Stark was no magic man, and neither was Catelyn. Against those odds however, Robb had the gift. It was indisputable. Ned thought it was a small mercy, letting Jon have one more tenable connection with someone in his life. Luckily for them both, Robb only saw Jon as a true brother, and loved him fervently.

They were inseparable, as all Starks should be.

Benjen reckoned that Robb was a prodigy. It all still didn’t make a ton of sense to Ned, but his younger brother complained that his boy nephew was better at sealing magic than him now and would only get better with time. Ned hoped that was the only thing Robb picked up from Benjen, noticing more and more how his oldest boy displayed the cocky sarcasm that Ben so fondly wore on his sleeve.

Robb’s affinity for _Aur’ena_ also helped to mask Jon’s. It served to strengthen the claim that he was in fact Ned’s boy, just with another woman.

Guess some things work themselves out.

There were still stumbles along the way.

Nothing in life was perfect and Ned’s known that for as long as he can remember. As a man of the North though, he had his moments of pride. Things could have played out much worse so far, with the Greyjoy rebellion being the major exception. He supposed not all war could be quelled so fast.

These things took time.

Luckily for him, that’s all he ever wanted.

* * *

When the day for Benjen’s farewells arrived, as he left to join the Night’s Watch, Ned was mostly concerned over if they had done enough.

He’d held his duty to Lyanna, would it be the right choice in the end?

Ben had brought both Robb and Jon under his wing, taught them as much as he could.

Was it enough?

They hadn’t told Jon of his _other_ burden yet. He was still a boy, same as Robb. It could wait until he was a man, and hopefully not too long after.

The realm had finally stitched together again, after they defeated the Greyjoys and secured the unity of the seven kingdoms under King Robert Baratheon, first of his name.

He was glad that Benjen could follow his own path, having sacrificed years at Ned’s behest. Sad to see him go, he might be, but Ned was happy for his little brother. Every man should walk the road they choose for themselves.

Cat wanted another baby as well.

Gods. Seems his duties as Lord of Winterfell never stopped.

Well, when he was with Catelyn like that, it wouldn’t be fair to call it _duty_.

No, that would be wrong.

It was love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for checking this out!
> 
> Catch ya later ~


	4. Daenerys I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She considered that her brother may have died somehow, and a monster had taken his form. She wished she were dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: Non-Con/Mentions of non-con.
> 
> Please, if mentions of this topic or its concepts are harmful to you, I encourage you to skip the last section. 
> 
> Thank you for reading this work!

**Daenerys**

**~**

It was strange, she decided.

A girl in deep contemplation, or simply peaceful admiration, stood alone on an open balcony overseeing the shores of Essos, gracefully distanced so as not bothered by sharp ocean winds and salted scents. The beaches were rocky, not exactly suitable for merriment or sailing. It was an isolated view, protected from disturbances of the outside world by tall and jagged stone, climbing up and up even above where the girl stood on her stone balcony. It was her private quarters, she mused. All the sights seen in front of her merely an extension of her chambers. The rocks spread out wide, encompassing the scenery snugly, like walls for a keep. A garden of blue and stone, just for Daenerys.

Behind her, the rest of her solar was not as expansive perhaps, but it was certainly homely. Architecture of nobility and wealth encased her possessions. They had been here for a while now, and Daenerys did not wish to leave this recluse. The view was simply too valuable. The climate was the most agreeable of the homes she had ever known. The Summer was pleasant. The Winter, pleasant. All the seasons of the year really, felt almost the same – a never ending comfort on the skin, a blanket for all occasions.

She decided rather quickly upon her arrival that she was happy here. She wanted this to last as long as possible, maybe convince her brother to stop relocating them. Perhaps this was as far as they need go, all the travels prior like steppingstones for this end. Daenerys longed for familiarity, for home. So did her brother, as he mentioned often. Every change of scenery came with the same words.

“Another foot forward, Dany. We’re almost home.”

So eventually, she judged it strange. Why couldn’t this be home? Why was Westeros, a land far beyond reach, the only place her brother seemed to care about. She debated over it for a long time. For her, home was always with Viserys. She trusted him, but at some point, she realized that her trust was mere reliance. After all, the rest of their family was gone. He was her only blood in all the world, and theirs was the line of Kings and Queens. The blood of the dragon. Viserys’ storied accounts of their family’s legacy were etched into her mind like ink into paper, the contents of their lineage read from the tomes of Westerosi legacy, like carvings into stone. The books they collected penned from the ever-diligent students of history, the Maesters of The Citadel, she recalled, had much to say of the Targaryen’s many accomplishments.

She never felt like royalty, not the way Viserys did. The power that Aegon the Conqueror displayed to unite kingdoms and burn castles in the annals of history seemed to seep into Viserys’s very being. He wanted to live up to such feats and acted as if they were his own. After all, he was a dragon. The same way that their brother Rhaegar, who died before she was storm born, was heralded so. The magical, graceful Crowned Prince Rhaegar was called the Last Dragon. He was many things, especially a skilled warrior, wielding the Targaryen _Aur’ena_ like he created it himself. It seemed ironic that after his death, Viserys achieved the same power.

She was just a babe when they were cast into exile. Viserys said that when Rhaegar died, it ‘woke the dragon’ within him. It was difficult at first to understand what he meant over the years, but when she first saw it in action, all doubt was lifted.

His eyes were the tell. He possessed the Dragon’s Eye, like Rhaegar before him. A power linked to the core of House Targaryen’s might. Many of the great rulers of their line wielded it, from Aegon I and his sister wives Rhaenys and Visenya, to Maegor the Cruel and Daeron the Young Dragon. Even the infamous Daemon Blackfyre was rumored to have fought Daeron II with an even greater Dragon’s Eye, spawning numerous rebellions by his children, committing great atrocities in the pursuit of the same power. On and on, the great rulers were said to have the eyes.

Fate deemed Viserys no exception. The power was great.

So was the toll.

The Targaryen magic had great renown in Westeros, even the smallfolk knew of it. Here in exile, the maids and lords who remained loyal to their family shared stories of how young lords of noble Houses would pretend play as though they had the power. Those stories always gave Daenerys hope, a beacon of faith that when she and her brother would return home, the love of their people would welcome them. She imagined what games the children would invent, cosplaying as Targaryen knights and princesses.

Their father, King Aerys II, who was killed by usurper savages, did not possess the power it seemed. Viserys had told her as much, as did the servants in their company, but their father was not bereft of their magics. He still had his wildfire. Rumors of madness, spurred by jealousy of his magic, launched the realm against the Crown. Her brother said Father was a good and undefeatable King, his downfall only brought upon by betrayal, murdered by his own Kingsguard – and traitorous lions.

Years ago, when Daenerys first used her own wildfire by accident, she had startled herself greatly. One evening, a flush of colored flame ignited a dress that one of her maids had given her, sending them both into a panic. It spread so quickly that the entire fabric was reduced to ash in a manner of seconds. Luckily, it could not catch the marble floor before the fire died, bereft of fuel to continue sustain itself. Viserys was quite proud of her that night, he promised her that they would burn their enemies together when they returned home. While her brother grew surer of their power, Daenerys became wary of everything she touched.

It was at this memory that she held her hand out and focused. Little dollops of lilac flame gently rose from her petite fingers, gingerly rolling between her digits. It was remarkably beautiful like this. The color was almost white, with outlines of purple dancing at the edges.

“Your _aura_ is splendid,” a voice came from behind.

The fires in her hand vanished instantly. Turning gracefully, there stood Viserys. His Dragon’s Eye shinning in the shade of her chambers. “Soon enough, you’ll have a dragon’s flame…” he joined her on the balcony.

“- and the power to scorch our enemies,” he finished, taking her hand and holding it his own.

Daenerys gave a reluctant smile, eyes downcast where their hands were joined. Fire had its tendencies for violence, but as terrible its wrath may be, it was also beautiful. She always wanted her fire to shine pure. “… I don’t wish to hurt anyone,” she starts. “-I just think it’s pretty.” She meets his gaze, her pale purple eyes taking in his darker depths. She focuses on the teardrop swirls in his irises, feeling the magic seemingly radiating from her brother. Blood-drops, he called them. She always thought their family’s hallmark _Aur’ena_ was mesmerizing to behold. The Dragon’s Eye bestows many gifts, she remembers.

Viserys scoffs at her words. “You’ll do more than simple parlor tricks, Dany. I am the Last Dragon, and you are my princess,” he starts. “Together our flames will rid the Seven Kingdoms of usurpers and liars.” At this, he moves to hold her by the waist, hugging her close to him in a way that makes Daenerys uncomfortable.

She believes him. In demonstration of his words, a bolt of flame erupts from his palm, flickering up before it dissipates, a streak of brilliant yellow fire. He gets very close to her now. Daenerys can smell his breath; a lingering of Arbor wine assaults her senses. He wasn’t always like this, but when she looks into his eyes, she almost can’t help but doing what he wants. She can’t help submitting to whatever Viserys says, like a spell binds her to his sight.

As they grew older, hiding in exile, her brother’s eye’s became stronger over time. The Dragon’s Eye changed as the years went on as well, the number of blood-drops in each iris increasing steadily, growing more potent. She remembers being little, when Viserys only had one blood-drop per eye, now he possessed three in each. A dragon has three heads.

“I’m not like you Viserys, I can’t control it the way you can,” she said. Daenerys somehow separates their eye contact and looks back out to the sea. Her voice is somber.

“I couldn’t go on if I somehow hurt you. I’m scared sometimes, as though I’ll engulf myself in fire at any moment,” she let out dejectedly. Her brother only snickered in amusement.

“We are _dragons_ dear sister. Our fires cannot harm us, only our enemies, of which there are plenty left to set ablaze.” he says poignantly.

“What if they did?” she asks. “What if they were able to hurt us?”

His response was cavalier. “Then you are no dragon.”

They stay there, standing. Dany wanted to leave after hearing that. Her brother could say hurtful things sometimes. Consumed, was Viserys, hellbent on claiming the Iron Throne that was stolen from them. Her bother wasn’t always like this. Only recently, the last two years or so, did his demeanor grow more animalistic. He grew more possessive of her, and quick to anger. Often, Viserys would summon her to his bedside, and preen about her body. He started saying things that made her flush with embarrassment. She didn’t like it one bit, but her family had wed brother and sister for centuries. Viserys had told her to accept a similar outcome, since they were all that was left of their House.

Finally, Viserys turned away from his sister, giving Dany some breathing room. “I have good tidings for us sister. Our allies have potentially given me the key to retake our home. I’m to meet with our hosts within a fortnight and discuss the matter at length. Soon enough, I can cast off our shackles of exile. I will truly be Viserys Targaryen, rightful King of the Andals and Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. My reign will bring fire and blood to the shores of Westeros and the eradication of the Usurper who sits upon my throne.”

He turned back to face her. Daenerys had heard this from him many times. She pondered his words in abject concern. Perhaps he had changed from the boy she grew up knowing, but it had to be partly hyperbole. Daenerys could tell that a distant voice inside her was building up. With his changing nature, she didn’t know what Viserys was completely serious about from time to time. If Viserys was to be king, surely, he would not kill all his would-be subjects to reclaim the throne. Such a ruler would be cast a madman.

She needn’t worry about such an outcome.

“You will have your part to play dear sister. Another food forward, Dany. We are almost home.”

Her eyes darkened.

* * *

The longer this morning went on, the greater the dread that consumed her. Standing here now, in a white gown more revealing than if she were naked, she felt more meat than human. Viserys didn’t explain very much, but as if on a whim, she was to be wed, and not to him. Without so much as the curtesy to give her time to make sense of betrothal and even less to come to terms with it, she waited in the garden of their house on the rocky cliffs to meet the man who was to be her husband. Again, it was all getting strange.

Soon enough, a parade of horses worked their way into the opening. They carried tanned, gruesome looking men, absent of most garments – and if the scent wasn’t telling enough – semblance of hygiene. They continued to pile in, until a man larger and more fear inducing than all the rest stopped directly in front of Viserys.

“Come sister.”

She was dumbstruck, yet her body moved on its own. She halted right beside her brother, not daring a single step closer to the hulking man on horseback. After a beat, she dared to steal a look at Viserys, whose face was stuck in an arrogant looking smirk.

No words were said. The air around her was filled to the brim with the judgment of this monster before her atop his steed. She was being crushed. Her knees grew shaky.

She was to marry this man?

Daenerys didn’t know if she could even crane her neck to meet his gaze if they stood together. Just before she felt as though she would reach her limit and collapse, the man reared his house back, and with a mighty swivel of his horse, he was gone. Dany didn’t know what had happened.

“Did he like her?” Viserys asked incredulously.

“If he didn’t,” Magister Illyrio answered, “we would know, your Grace.”

“Good,” was all Viserys could add. He turned to face Dany and spoke with great amusement.

“That was Khal Drogo, a chieftain of the Dothraki horse lords. He’s earned quite a reputation for himself. They call him ‘The Great Khal,’ a prophetic title given to the one who will unite all Dothraki through strength. Imagine all the challengers he’s faced. He’s bested _many_ other Khals. He might actually do it if he carries on at this rate.”

Daenerys flinches at her brother’s words. She needed little aid to sum up her _very_ intimidating suitor. He was already quite threatening.

Viserys prattled on. “We’re quite certain he will, for he has never lost a battle. Quite a fine killer, to be sure. I’m more interested in his khalasar of 40,000 warriors, however.”

That’s an enormous army.

“And after we sell you to him, I will bring them across the Narrow Sea, so that I may take back the Iron Throne!”

…

What?

“Sell me?” she questions in disbelief.

Viserys simply smiles at her. “Of course, dear sister. As I said, you will have your part to play.”

Daenerys felt a storm of emotions, and the dam breaks from her eyes, tears rolling freely on her cheek. “But I want to come home with you,” she pleads. “Won’t I join you in Westeros?”

Her brother wipes her tears away, uncaringly. “Oh Dany, I suspect you’ll have to stay here in Essos for quite some time once you join Khal Drogo’s horde. After we travel to Vaes Dothrak, I will depart with the bulk of forces necessary to reclaim King’s Landing.”

She’s shaking now, anger replacing sadness.

“You’d leave me here, with them?” she asked.

He laughs in her face. “What use would you be? I am the Last Dragon,” the words roll over his tongue like a slithering omen. Daenerys can’t believe her brother would discard her so easily.

“But I want to go home...” she stammers out.

Violently, Viserys grabs her neck and wrings her forth, her eyes widening out in fear. “Home!? You want to go home? You don’t even know what home _is_ , Dany. You will play your role dutifully as the sister to the King…” he lingers, bringing her close so he could whisper the worst thing she’d ever heard.

“I would let… all forty thousand of his men, _and_ their horses, fuck you bloody if it brought me the Iron Throne.

* * *

She considered that her brother may have died somehow, and a monster had taken his form. She wished she were dead. She felt dead leaving Pentos. Dead on the shores of the rocky beaches, where she was wed. Dead when she received three stones of unnaturally different color.

“Dragon eggs,” she was told, but didn’t care. The dead didn’t get excited for dragons, not after they’d been burned to ash, like _she_ had. She was dead when a knight from Westeros gave her his greetings and wedding gift, and when Drogo led her to a horse paler than her silver hair.

When he took her that night, mutilated her body with his, she couldn’t muster the will to defend herself. If her wildfire was her spirit, it was tucked away far from the displeasure of the world around her, on the brink of snuffing out. As her body melted from the heat of despair, sleep brought her the reprieve of escape.

Daenerys felt cold inside, like a corpse.

She dreamed of snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you skipped the end, Dany does receive all three dragon eggs. 
> 
> Catch you next time!


	5. Jon I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Across the Narrow Sea, two souls share one heartbeat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we see a brief introduction to Jon. Action to come in the chapter following this one.

**Jon**

**~**

“You’re such shit, brother…”

Jon cocked up his neck toward the sudden outburst of assessment.

As if it would be anyone else, there stood Robb, sniggering.

With an exasperated sigh, Jon’s knitted brow topped off an incredulous smirk, showing just a glint of teeth as he bobbed his head.

“Ah, apologies, Stark. Since your smug ass is here, perhaps I’ll try a bit harder,” Jon lipped with sarcasm.

Instead of a volleying a comeback of his own, the eldest son of Eddard and Catelyn Stark bent down at the knees, joining Jon in a suspended crouch above the earth.

“Aye, perhaps you should, Snow.”

The two boys locked eyes with one another. Eventually, Robb gave Jon an expectant look before motioning down to where they hovered with a quick flick of his eyes.

“Uncle would have your head rolling, if he stepped up and you presented this shabby scribing,” Robb reached down and grazed Jon’s handiwork with his index and middle finger.

“Tsk, Tsk, Tsk,” he clicked. “Sorry Jon, this bind couldn’t hold water to paper!” Robb chuckled, obviously pleased with his own joke.

Stumped, all Jon could do was wave his hands up in defeat. “Benjen will have me scribe until my hand falls off, if I can’t even mark up a damn practice rune.” Jon sucked his lips together in annoyance.

Robb’s face flexed into raised eyebrows and a forced frown, swaying his head to the side.

“Well, to be fair…”

Jon looked up. Maybe he wasn’t far off the mark?

Robb paused, mouth slightly agape in consideration.

“… Nah! You as daft as you are broody, brother?”

Both boys flashed cheeky grins as Robb threw his head back, laughing jauntily. Jon threw out a shove with his left hand as Robb fell off balance and caught himself with his palms. Jon couldn’t suppress his own laughter anymore, dropping his weight on the dirt and combed a hand through his hair.

“Can’t say you aren’t a great motivator, Robb. One day I’m going to show you up so bad, your face will turn as red as your hair. Mark my words!”

Jon let out a slow and audible breath. His work may have been unimpressive, but he had been stuck on it for hours now. 

“Don’t lose hope Jon,” Robb started again, “if you play your cards right, you could still rune up Theon’s belt, at least give him a good prank when he visit’s Wintertown next.”

Jon scoffed, while Robb went on chortling.

Watching Robb let loose though, Jon couldn’t keep up his tough act. He genuinely smiled, careful not to show his half-brother, that dizzy sod. He didn’t want to give Robb the satisfaction of knowing him too well. He had been tensed and frustrated at himself for not having worked out the practice rune, and Robb of course, the ever-chipper lug that he was, came over to take the piss out of him. Jon wasn’t frustrated anymore, or tense. He was laughing, just as Robb had wanted no doubt.

These were Jon’s favorite moments. He cherished these goofy acts that the eldest Stark son spared him. Robb always knew how to draw out the fun in him, something that both irked and pleased Jon greatly. Sometimes, Jon felt like having Robb in his life was a mercy the Old Gods spared him for being born a bastard.

He wouldn’t have it any other way.

Sure, the thought had crossed his mind every day. Jon Stark. Trueborn son of Eddard Stark. It was a fantasy he had dreamed about many, many times. He had lived his whole life within these walls. He could feel the North in his bones now… and still, the knowledge that he shouldn’t be here ate him alive. There was not a single thing in his life that gave him more confliction. Jon just wanted to know where he belonged.

When Robb was with him, like now, he had his answer.

Winterfell. The North. The Starks. Well, most of them.

Robb treated him like a Stark. There was no difference to him who Jon’s mother was, and Jon loved him dearly for it. It wasn’t only Robb these days as well. Now, there was Arya, Bran, even little Rickon – they all called him brother. They had no judgement in their eyes, just smiles and hugs.

Arya loved to scrap in the yard with the rest of the boys, the pint-sized animal. Lately, she was regaling Jon of all the Targaryen princess warriors and heroes from history before bed. She was quite fond of them, he found, often talking his bloody ear off on most occasions. She would always get pulled aside by Old Nan before the day got too late, however.

It would soon be Bran’s tenth name day. Jon knew he’d have to get something special together for him. He loved to practice his archery in the yard and wouldn’t let Jon or Robb leave his sight.

‘You have to watch me!’ he’d call out. ‘I can aim better if you’re both here.’

He’d have to tell Bran that they wouldn’t always be able to stand by and ‘help’ his aim, but that would lead to a less than pleasant type of conversation.

Rickon. That little squirrel of a boy could barely talk, but boy could he move those little legs. Just like Bran, Jon knew that Rickon could never feel comfortable stood still in the same spot for long. They were like wolves, always on the prowl. Their bodies had to move, or Jon was sure they’d be liable to pop.

“Alright,” Robb’s words pulled Jon out of his head. “C’mere, Jon. Your superior will show you how it’s done,” he teased. “Under my tutelage, you’ll get this locking rune down before Summer ends. Don’t expect a miracle though.”

Jon’s brow jumped from his forehead now.

“Ah, so that’s how it is, then?” Jon mocked. “Should I mewl a bit for my good brother to help sorry ol’ me get it right?”

It always took a minimal effort to rile Robb up, so before Jon knew it, they were in each other’s grapples, trying to see who could shove the other’s face into the soppy dirt below.

Before they could get much into it however, a familiar voice chimed through the air.

“You silly boys will be calling me Lady of Winterfell if Father ever saw you like this.”

Both Robb and Jon perked up and met eyes with Sansa, standing several strides away, stood halfway through the gate into one of the courtyards. Robb immediately let go of Jon.

“Apologies Sansa, don’t expect you to be familiar with any sort of fun now?” Robb lipped to her in response. Turning back to Jon, he gave a statement on the more serious side. “Keep practicing Jon. You can get it right. I know Benjen will be coming for a visit from the Wall soon, so make sure you have something to show off. Hm?” With a sincere, but brief smile, Robb started off toward their sister.

“So, Sansa, is it just me, or the both of us that Father wants?”  
Sansa rolled her eyes. “Don’t be such a know it all. Just you.”

Jon chanced a look at his half-sister. She was unusually tall for her age, maybe even eye level with him now. She already looked convincingly like Lady Catelyn. It did not bode well for him to have two of her around, so for as long as he could remember, he walked on eggshells around her, and her him. An arrangement both came to without much a whisper.

“Well we can’t leave our brother out of everything forever,” Robb indulged. “Some day he might be the one leading things around here. You never know.”

That was when Sansa’s eyes locked with Jon’s. “Half-brother. And most unlikely.”

There it was. Jon let his gaze slowly break away from hers, opting for the middle distance just about anywhere other than her direction. A mummer for Lady Stark through and through.

Robb’s easy-going face tightened up at that. Still maintaining his stride, he trudged along into the gate and past his sister. “Come along, Sansa. Let us see what Father has to say.” Before she turned to join him, Jon could feel one last beat of her eyes upon him. It made his shoulders slouch. Occasionally, Sansa would just give him this look, a face burnt into his mind after all the times he had seen it. It was not like Lady Stark’s, who wished him gone from the very castle. It was a withering look on her face. The kind you’d give a hole in your shoe.

Unwilling to have any more confrontation, he decided to head further out from the courtyards, somewhere he could have more isolation. In his steps, he became oblivious to the change in Sansa’s features.

He would have seen worry.


	6. Daenerys II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dany comes face to face with the long road ahead of her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A double upload probably doesn't mean much after two months of silence, but I felt like I should post this one. I want to continue this story, so that I can stop daydreaming about it, lol. 
> 
> Action ahead. I want to get better at combat sequences in the future, so expect more to come.

**Daenerys**

**~**

After some time, she couldn’t even recall what direction they were headed. The expanse before her was infinite. She understood why the called it a sea. Grasses and wheat grew wildly, untamable by man. Their caravan traveled all day, with short rests at night. Though it wasn’t like she was getting any rest. No, that was when the real task was to be borne. Riding all day left her sore, a night with Drogo left her raw. There were many nights.

A drumming of some kind kept their pace, sometimes she’d look back to try and spot whoever kept this beat. She never caught eye of them, only hundreds and hundreds of Drogo’s _khalasar_.

‘ _All 40,000 men… and their horses…’_

She winced.

She felt terrified.

Begging never helped. She raised her hand, darkened from their days traveling the Dothraki Sea. She hadn’t imagined her skin could tan to this shade. Her hair burned more gold than silver now as well. Trying to gain focus while on horseback, she grunted with effort to summon her flame to her fingers, as she had so often before.

Nothing.

Was she even the same person anymore? The thought consumed her. Gradually, unstoppably, the young woman who batted eyes upon a balcony over the coastline was being replaced – overshadowed by a scared stranger, flinched from the slightest advancements from her _doting_ new husband. Worst of all, she felt driven to Viserys, against all odds. He was still her brother, no matter how cruel his action. She could feel something inside her was on the brink of snapping. More and more, her mind creating anxiousness. Each passing day, a memory forgotten, a friend in Pentos, a dream from summer, the scent of flowers from her old garden, _rain._

How long? How long had she been traveling? How many nights did she repress, blacked out for her own sanity? She should speak with Viserys, he would know when they were leaving these Dothraki. Then they could prepare for Westeros, and he will become King.

Daenerys shut her eyes, so confused. She was lost.

“Everything alright, princess?”

She turned her head, facing her addressor.

It was the knight. The Westerosi knight of slight age, the one who gave her some kind of gift at her wedding. What was his name again? He was in favor with the Dothraki. Perhaps he meant to guard her brother?

“Forgive me, ser…”

“Jorah,” he finished for her. “Jorah Mormont, of Bear Island.”

“Bear Island… is that in Westeros, ser?”

He nodded. “Aye princess, an island in the North, off the coast of Deepwood Motte.”

Daenerys struggled to recall the maps of Westeros she’d studied. If this man meant to swear loyalty to her brother, she didn’t want to offend him.

“Ah yes, thank you Ser Jorah. You have my thanks for assisting my brother and I through these lands,” she offered neutrally. He seemed shrug off her gratitude. “Of course, princess. It is an honor.” Their conversation seems to end there, until Jorah pipes up again.

“Have you enjoyed your books so far?” he asks.

“Books?” Dany questions innocently. Jorah does not stammer.

“My gift to you, for your wedding with Khal Drogo.”

Oh.

She shied away from him, into herself. She felt foolish, and ungrateful. Truth be told, she hadn’t really bothered inspecting the gifts from that day. It was one she’d rather forget. Daenerys spent most of her days hiding in her own head now, unless Viserys spoke with her. Drogo wasn’t keen on words much.

“Forgive me, ser. I’ve been out of sorts for a while. M-My mind is elsewhere it seems.”

She couldn’t quite tell, but the knight gave her a look. It almost looked like remorse.

“They’re yours to do with, even if that’s to discard them,” the knight offers. A gentleman it seems. “I thought you may enjoy those books, considering they’re Targaryen heirlooms.”

Dany perks up. “Heirlooms?”

“Aye, princess. I brought them with me when I fled Westeros. Many things were lost, after the sacking of King’s Landing, but some things were spared, by coincidence or the greed of strangers.” Jorah cast his eyes away for a moment. Daenerys wondered what he was thinking about. Before an awkward silence could take hold, he went on again.

“They’re books, written in High Valyrian. Not worth very much to the smallfolk of Westeros, but due to their origin, quite a collector’s item for any nobleman. I procured them from a Lord of the Westerlands, family of a soldier who was there after the King fell, and the Red Keep was stormed. He fought for your family; I’m told – the knight who spirited the books away from King’s Landing. No doubt, he fled escaping the Lannister’s wrath.”

Dany pondered this. Perhaps they were valuable, if a soldier had mind to guard and then steal them after turning tail. She was interested.

“Can you read High Valyrian, Ser Jorah?”

He shakes his head steadily.

“No, princess. I can only speak Common, and some basic Dothraki.”

Odd, she thought. “Then what led you to purchasing them?”

As soon as she asked, Jorah Mormont lowered his head slightly. It appeared she may have said something wrong. Did he have something to hide?

“A gift. I bought them as a gift.”

“For me?”

A long pause.

“For you, princess.”

She didn’t know if he was poorly honest or a sorry liar.

“Then, Ser Jorah, I thank you for your splendid gift. When I get the chance, I shall rea – “

…

Something is off.

Jorah stirs on his horse, looking at Dany at first, and then around her, and behind them. He can’t tell if he said something to throw her off, or if something caught Daenerys attention.

“The drums…” she states after a moment.

“Princess?” he asks. Suddenly Jorah doesn’t like the atmosphere. It feels familiar to him.

“The drums have stopped,” she says plainly. That’s when Jorah seemed to recall the feeling, he felt it forming around them like fog.

Danger.

Slowly, he begins to hear the sound. An unmistakable cry slowly building in the distance. If you’ve heard it once, you know immediately what’s coming.

Daenerys can’t seem to understand what’s going on. Skittish with nerves, she meets Ser Jorah’s gaze. She takes sucks in air sharply, watching him unsheathe his sword. Before they know it, the slow roar is immediately upon them.

**_RAAHH!!_ **

One moment, she was atop her horse, the next, she was face down in hot dirt. Her arm was numb, a bundle of nerves vibrating in dull pulses. The only thing she could do was gasp for air, flexing her face violently to get oxygen. She had the wind knocked out of her.

Above, the white stallion that Drogo has given her reared in fright, neighing loudly at the sudden commotion. Screaming. There was screaming all around her. Men running, women fleeing, the sounds of metal clashing from every direction. Abruptly, she felt a tug from her numb arm, the sensation rough and foreign.

“ _Arghh!”_ she wailed in pain.

Ser Jorah jumped when she cried out, instantly letting go of Daenerys’s arm. “Princess!” he called out. “Your other arm!”

She meekly raised her left arm up, and with strength worthy of a knight, she felt her body leave the ground as Jorah hoisted Dany up to her feet. Caked in dirt, she looked down as soon as she had her balance, oblivious to anything else.

“Ser Jorah?” Fear laced her words.

Looking up, she faced his back. He was crouched in a defensive stance, in front of him a man who looked like a Dothraki from Drogo’s khalasar was rushing at them with full speed. She looked at the man from behind the knights shielding position. No, he seemed different… dressed different. In loins unlike those from their caravan.

“Stay behind me, Khaleesi!” Jorah roared, and with a flashy step forward, his drawn blade crashed loudly against the attackers arakh. The metal edges scrapped against each other, as the Dothraki changed his footing, displacing them both. The assailant went to slash at Jorah but was stopped cold, blade at the apex of his raised arm. He grunted loudly and froze with a gasp after he was met with the knight’s shoulder guard plowing into his exposed diaphragm.

As soon as the Dothraki’s balance fell backward, Jorah brought his blade upwards, keeping his elbows bent as he delivered two flurried swipes to the bare-chested attacker. His sword sliced cleanly, separating flesh from left breast in his first arc, and from clavicle to shoulder down in deep strokes. One step back, and Jorah raised his sword high, firmly grasping the leather grip before sending his sword barreling down on top of his foe.

Daenerys could only watch in shock, having never witnessed such violence. Wasting no time, Jorah backed away from the disposed threat and returned to Dany’s side.

“Khaleesi?” he barked. No response.

“Daenerys!”

Snapping back to her surrounds, she could only look around see chaos. Ser Jorah’s determined look. Horses fleeing all about. Riders dismounting as they jumped into wild displays of acrobatic melee.

She heard several shrieks from behind them and turned to see Drogo riding fearlessly in their direction. Viserys on his tail. She watched as Drogo effortlessly dispatched several attacking Dothraki from horseback, each with a mortal strike of his curved blade.

“Drogo!” Viserys called from behind.

“ _Drogo!_ Protect me!”

The Great Khal came to a stop when they reached Jorah and Daenerys. One nod from both warriors, and Drogo picked Daenerys up bridal style, placing her on the back of his mount. Sitting upright, she clutched her right arm in agony. Drogo muttered something in Dothraki. Dany couldn’t make sense of what he meant.

“Don’t move your arm, princess. It’s probably broken. Keep still as best you can.” The words came from Jorah in a hurried tone before he was confronted by another attacker.

Drogo grunted in anger after slaying another invader, then moved to defend Dany from the back. Glancing around, she witnessed Viserys getting surrounded by several men.

“Get back! I’ll burn you to cinders!” he exclaimed, eyes prominently on display and his hands held out. Sickly dark, yellow flames began to rise from his palms.

At her brother’s verbal threat, one man clutched his head, almost collapsing from his words. Viserys took this opportunity to make his attack.

With a prolonged grunt emanating from the back of his throat, he stepped forward and punched his extended palm forth, spurting a disorderly spray of wildfire out from his hand. It appeared that the blast would decimate his foes, but shockingly, the fires cleared to reveal smoking ends of tall grass behind them. Viserys had accidentally aimed the flames too high, his body shaken with adrenaline as he lashed about. He threw more flames yet hit no one around him. The experienced Dothraki easily moving around with quick steps to avoid the fire.

One Dothraki simply reared his arakh and threw it at the unsettled Viserys, knicking his arm with a slight cut.

As the weapon made contact, he cried out in panic.

“ _Gah!!_ Mongrel! I’ll kill you!” he desperately screamed in a fit of rage. Stumbling forward with clumsy legwork, the Dothraki closed the gap and knocked him to his ass. In that moment, as Daenerys witnessed the skirmish, time seemed to slow down.

‘This is the end,’ she thought. ‘He’s going to die right in front of me.’

Pitifully, the Last Dragon jumbled all sorts of words, until pleas of mercy were audible in full. Spittle flew into the air, as he defensively raised an arm up in surrender while he backed away, kicking at dirk in desperation.

But he did not die. A _bloodrider_ , one of Drogo’s chosen fighters, swooped in on the scene and made quick work of the assailants before further harm came to the groveling prince.

With the storm of battle swirling around her, Dany started to feel dizzy. She tore her view from her brothers struggle and searched desperately for Ser Jorah. When she spotted him fighting alongside Drogo, a semblance of calm finally came to her.

That’s when the pain kicked in. An almost unbearable ache from her arm. Perhaps she really did break it? Her vision became crowded with black splotches, on the verge of passing out from the pain. It was then, when she was distracted, that a rider crashed into Drogo’s horse from the rear, and she fell forward.

Landing on her broken arm.

As she made contact, Daenerys couldn’t so much as yelp. Before she could make any noise, really, the darkness forming in her eyes consumed her vision.

She passed out, atop the horse of her husband.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for checking my story out. If you would like, comment any suggestions or feedback. I appreciate it :)


	7. Robb I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> News from the South. Preparations in the North. Changes on the horizon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback appreciated :)
> 
> I'm burning to get this story written.

**Robb I**

~

The air around the castle walls lofted the flags and tablecloths of the barrack stalls as Robb made his way to the great hall.

Along the way, he was greeted with nods and acknowledgement from the castle’s inhabitants. How old was he when he began to understand his role in the family? He certainly wasn’t a member of the royal family, but here in the North, Robb was the closest thing to a prince outside the pages of folktale. Step by step, he trudged his way through the sloppy dirt beneath his soles, the ground worn and weary from the Winterfell workers and their carts. Scents of hay and the odor of working men poured into his nose and outside of his slightly agape mouth. Robb tightened his lips. Presentation sets tone, Mother always told him, an important facet of leadership that springs at all opportunities. Just once, he’d gladly feign boredom to ward off small interruptions.

Speaking of interruptions.

“Father seemed to have important news for us,” Sansa announced, breathing audibly from her short jog to catch up to her brother.

“Everything Father says is important,” Robb stated. “And you sure took your time, have a change of heart about inviting Jon?”

His sister harumphed. “Absolutely not. I was just preoccupied with my tunic laces. I can’t stand these sorry days where the Sun makes everything swelter.” Robb got a laugh out of that one.

“You’re wearing your cloak. If you walk around in it all the time, you’re bound to be a bit warm, Sansa.” They both turned into a corridor leading to the main yard, steps on mud replaced with patter of leather on cobblestone.

“I just made this one, I wanted to see if it’s comfortable,” Sansa countered.

Robb came to a stop and made a slow but exaggerated turn to his sister. “First thing, that’s what a fitting is for, even I know that. Second,” he lingered. It was darker in the corridor than outside, but in certain shadings, Sansa looked frighteningly like Mother. On occasion it makes him hesitant to lecture her. Similarly, whenever Jon was next to their Father, he looked more Stark than anyone else. Robb’s Tully colors only stood out with age. He wondered if they would one day be unrecognizable as brothers. Time passes and hasn’t the slightest curtesy to tell anyone.

“…Look, Sansa,” Robb coaxed. “Ease up to Jon, alright? You weren’t always so easy influenced by Mother. I remember when you would play with all of us years ago. Don’t be in such a rush to be an adult.”

Sansa tightened her jaw. “I’m not always going to be a little girl, Robb. That was forever ago. I want better things to do than play with smelly boys in the mud and grass.” Looking away from him, Sansa suddenly found a vegetable cart remarkably interesting to her eye. She doesn’t like talking about this subject and Robb just finds it humorous.

“And?” he started back up.

Sansa shot him a look. “What?”

Robb chuckled. “Stop sticking your nose up at our brother. Did you have an argument or something?” he asked genuinely.

It was now Sansa’s turn to lead them toward the great hall. “Leave it be,” she starts, but is helpless to pass by her brother with any force. “Sansa. You’re a horrible liar.”

Now she was getting upset. “I am _not._ ”

“Yes, you are,” Robb chortled. “You couldn’t trick a goat into eating grass, let alone get me to believe you were held up by fiddling with your clothes. Did you say something to him after I left?”

Sansa rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Why would I?” she questioned apathetically.

Robb said nothing.

A feint neigh from a horse outside the gates was audible enough to goad Sansa into finishing her thoughts. “No, I didn’t,” she admitted.

“Then what’s the fuss about?”

At the very least, Robb was more than willing to bring the gap between his sister and half-brother to a close. Unpleasantries are seldom productive in the family. Fathers words, not his.

“Mother has been rather stringent on my reading lately. History provides brilliant insight into many great houses. Many unfortunate events have befallen noble families when a lord’s bastard comes of age in the South. You and Jon are practically the same age. What if he starts to be a poor influence on you?” Did you know that bastards of noble families often try and seize the title of Lord for themselves? What if he does something behind your back?”

Robb wouldn’t hear any of this nonsense.

“I’m years ahead of you on many things, dear Sansa. I’m not a gullible sort, and we both know Jon’s nature is opposite his station. Unless, you’ve seen evidence of Jon craftily plotting our downfall, have you?”

Obviously, Sansa could not answer.

Robb sighed.

Taking after your parents is usually a good thing. He’d been told as much from the guards to the groundsmen, even some of the smallfolk from Wintertown. ‘You’re a lovely lad, just like your Lord Father.’ It was good fortune to draw comparison to Ned Stark, but not all fortunes are fair.

“We’ll talk of this later. We’re here.”

With that, Robb opened door into the foyer of the great hall, rounded the corner and eventually found himself, along with his sister, in the entrance to one of the largest and oldest structures to stand in the old walls of Winterfell.

The great banquet hall of house Stark had a timeless feel to it. Walls of grayed stone encompassed the large hearth and sprawling tables lined to house plenty of noble guests and bannermen. Above the center hung the large iron chandelier, a light cake of melted wax surrounding the edges as the arms unfolded out, casting candlelight from above. Several panes of long laden glass let the natural white tones of the Northern sun penetrate the hall. Robb thought that while standing here in the middle of the day, it gave the setting a picturesque quality, a vignette one might see on an oil painting.

At the head table, risen above the rest of the hall, was Mother, along with the rest of their trueborn siblings, waiting patiently for their arrival. Catelyn was busy chiding a restless Arya, while Bran read a book, undoubtably one he neglected to return to the library after bringing to his quarters for candlelight reading. Little Rickon was preoccupied with a small metal lock contraption. If Robb recalled it correctly, it was the same little puzzle toy that he long outgrew. It was amusing watching the usually airy Rickon genuinely enthralled by the riddle.

“Come quickly now, Robb, Sansa. Your Father will be here shortly,” Mother addressed.

Arya had won out between their kerfuffle and accidentally ripped her gown up the side.

‘I’m rigid as a rock’ she would say, practically any time she was asked to wear garment even remotely lady like.

True to form, her only greeting was blunt and short. Just like Arya.

“I want to eat supper.”

Sansa rolled her eyes.

Not a beat later, and steps came echoing through the corridor to their stage right. The halls that led from the great hall and into the proper quarters were connected by walkways that wouldn’t interfere with the going abouts of the workers. Before Robb had a chance to get comfortable in his chair, Ser Rodrick, master-at-arms of Winterfell, walked hurriedly ahead of Father, and behind him, Theon Greyjoy: Father’s ward.

They appeared to be in thorough discussion.

“-and as you suggested, Lord Stark, we can have the required hay and provisions supplied by trade with Castle Cerwyn. After we send word, I will get the smiths working on polishing their better armors,” Ser Rodrik finished.

“Aye, Ser Rodrik. That will do.” 

Father and Mother locked eyes. Ned’s shoulders seemed to relax a bit. He took her hand as he stood to her side. Behind him, Robb could hear the commotion of tradesman, castle staff, and the rest of the assembly behind the management of Winterfell crowded into the hall to hear what information had come.

“Everyone, listen to what news I bring, it is of absolute importance.”

Robb almost wanted to laugh. Since when does Father have anything to say that _wasn’t_ important.

Once all attention went to the matter at hand, Ned unfurled a small scroll, the color of the wax immediately giving away the origin.

“This,” Ned said. “Is a scroll from the King himself.”

After a brief pause, he steadied his posture.

“Jon Arryn, Hand of the King and the man who fostered Robert and I, has been proclaimed dead.”

Ned stalled. Apart from Rickon, the Stark children chorused.

“May he rest with his Gods.”

“May he rest with his Gods.” Ned echoed.

Eddard Stark was a quiet man. This was no secret. Robb admired him there, in brief silence. Without so much as a day to grieve, here he stood, acting as Warden of the North before anything else.

“As somber, and unfortunate for House Arryn, and the Realm this loss is, there is more. Following this, King Robert Baratheon, First of his Name, rides North for Winterfell as we speak, along with the Queen and Prince Joffrey.”

Before the hall could be quelled, short outbursts of murmurs and bantering broke out. The King was personally traveling North? Robb tried to remember the last time a Southron King came to Winterfell.

Ned continued, unburdened by the disruption. “I have discussed the matters of preparation with Ser Rodrik and Maester Luwin. Our Stewart Vaylon Poole will sort out the details.”

Without delay, a flurry of movements went about the castle. Under Ned Stark’s command, Winterfell was a beautifully efficient machine. The castle folk went to work swiftly, with cause once Poole began making the rounds.

Now adjured, Robb turned to make his exit.

“Robb,” he heard.

The eldest Stark stood at attention.

“A word if you will,” said Ned.

“… Uncle Benjen will arrive before the fortnight?”

“Aye, son. We picked up a deserter from the watch several nights ago. Castle Black sent word of their missing brother after we found him. Benjen started out for Winterfell before I could send my missive. No doubt, he’s coming to search for other deserters. The timing is quite favorable. I need you to find Jon and bring him to meet with us. If what I fear will happen comes true, there’s no time to waste.”

“Jon will be pleased,” said Robb.

Alone and outside the hall, Robb could now see the stress upon his Father’s brow. A visit from the King was indeed no small affair, but surely it wouldn’t stir up much harm, aside from food stores. Kingly feasts are known to leave behind kingly famines. On second thought, if the King were served a piece of Old Nan’s umble pie, heads could roll…

“Yes, Father,” he said. “Shall I bring him to the hall?”

“No. Come to the godswood. Let our words stay with us and the Old Gods.”

Robb spared a moment to watch his Father walk back inside the hall. Deliberations of statecraft and personal wellbeing was a fine dance of Stark men for generations. In the moment, the weight of his station washed over his mind. The ginger days of Summer would soon leave them all. It’s easy sometimes, to forget that someday, this keep will be his to rule. His Father’s titles, his own. Sons and daughters looking for guidance. Too young to remember the Greyjoy rebellion, Robb suddenly reminds himself that the niceties of today were bought and paid, not just handed out by fate. Fate is no doting Mother. It has no interests, only forward. On and on life goes, only men’s intuition standing to propel their children into life. His was nurtured, groomed for eventual succession. He would be no King, but Warden of the North means standing at the top.

My, how steep the fall from this cliff.

On his look for Jon, he didn’t make it very far before an unexpected guest made their appearance.

“So, you’re off to find Jon, then?”

Robb craned his neck around as he walked. He could hear the small rhythm of little boots sloshing in the mud behind him.

Arya was wolfish as ever. Her playful attitude and toothy grin were excellent stress propellent. Unfortunately for her, the time for games was not now.

“Aye, sister, now I’m sorry but I’m a bit busy now. Perhaps Sansa can help you with what you need?”

She pouted.

“I don’t need help. I’m just bored.”

“Bored of doing your lessons, I imagine.”

“Not at all,” she sang.

“Arya. Now is not the time. Go back to your lessons at the Septum and we can shoot at targets later, deal?”

“I would enjoy part of that deal, but what if I told you that I know where Jon is already?”

Robb chuckled. “Then you best tell me, or I’ll shove a helmet on that noggin so tight you’ll sleep in it.”

“No!” she exclaimed. “Fine, fine. He told me he was going to be practicing that rune magic you do outside the Hunter’s Gate. I wish I could do the magic spelling, I bet I’d be loads better than you.”

“Hmm, perhaps better than Jon,” he teased. “But you’d give up from embarrassment competing with me.”

“Guess we’ll never know,” she huffed. “I still want to pull the bowstring later! Don’t forget!”

Putting more distance between himself and her, Robb jogged toward the Eastern Gate of Winterfell.

“What was that? Couldn’t hear you. _Aura_ must be clogging my ears.”

Robb earnestly thought he could be funny around Arya.

Already going in that direction before she caught up to him, he reached the gate before long and greeted the guardsmen on duty. The gate was open today, no doubt in part for the required stockpiling of rations for the incoming guests. By record, it takes about a full moon cycle to reach Winterfell from King’s Landing, if traveling the King’s Road uninhibited. Surely the size of the escort will slow them down. At the earliest, they had two fortnights before the King reached Winterfell. Benjen was to arrive before the week ended. Winterfell will be a packed house.

Sure enough, Arya had the right of it. Out in the grasses, Robb picked out Jon’s raven locks in a clearing a little distance away from the passing trappers on the trail out to the Wolfswood. When he got within earshot of Jon, Robb let his presence be known.

“Been looking for you, Snow.”

Jon turned around; eyebrows crossed in concentration at the practice before him. Upon closer inspection, Robb surmised that he was practicing the reinforce runes on the earth, slightly slick with dew and disheveled dirt.

“The family affair end already, then?” Jon asked.

“Not strictly a Stark event anymore it seems,” Robb answered.

That gave Jon pause. “No?”

“Nope. Father asked for your presence. Just you, him, and I. We’re to go to the Godswood now. I’ve come to fetch you.”

Jon let out a strong exhale.

“Bloody good timing at least. I’m at my wits end on this.”

Robb appraised his brother’s handywork. He remembered the right sigils. That was good. But…

“You’ve got the sigil order correct, but your rushing. See there? Your middle rune is off from the center.”

These basic runes were beneficial if used appropriately. Quickness was always key, but its pointless knowledge if the user can’t execute them. Especially not in a stressful environment.

“You’re fast with the strokes,” Robb began. “But remember what Benjen said. ‘A scribe that writes a thousand scrolls before noon creates two thousand sore eyes before dawn.’ It’s no use if your markings are illegible. Sloppy practice leaves sloppy performance.”

“Aye, pretty lecture, Stark. If the heat of a battle doesn’t give me the peace to draw then perhaps, I’ll ask them to nicely sod off,” Jon said.

Gods, the nerve.

Robb slaps him on the shoulder. “Hey now, if I recall correctly wasn’t it you who told me to keep my spirit raging on the inside and still on the surface?”

Jon Snow deserved a lick of his own medicine.

“Here you are,” Robb began.

Kneeling, Robb focused on the pull of his _Aur’ena,_ letting the root of its energy spread out and then concentrate in his hand. A dull blue glow encompassed the tip of his finger. Pulling out the _aura_ wasn’t hard, maintaining the flow of it was another story. Luckily for Robb, he had the better touch for now.

He found Jon’s rune for reinforce in the ground. Using his other hand to smudge away the faulty middle sigil, he redid the mark, only slightly to the left, finding the center of the top and bottom sigils.

His work done, Robb retracted his hand and motioned for John to test it out.

“Since I didn’t complete this rune in full, first, I channel my _aura_ back into the whole thing...” Jon said. In much the same fashion as Robb, his fingertip glowed the dim light of his _Aur’ena_ , and suddenly the rune pulsed blue altogether. It was a success.

Testing it out, Robb saw that he couldn’t smudge the dirt around like he had been able to. It was solid work.

“There you have it, Snow. Patience is a virtue.”

Obviously, Jon couldn’t help but return a remark.

“Aye, Robb, but Lord Stark’s time is also a virtue.”

Well, he wasn’t wrong.

“Let’s get going then, shall we? Keep up now.”

They stood together. Before they got far Robb added, “This is going to be a serious talk, Jon. Screw on that head and listen well.”

“I don’t need reminding. I seldom get the chance to talk with Father in earnest.”

“Good, perhaps in our next spar I’ll even let you reinforce your training sword _before_ attacking you.”

Jon smiled. “I’d still win without it.”

“Be smug while you can, Snow. It won’t be forever that we can spend hours in the training yard.”

That seemed to get Jon’s attention.

“Aye, I’ll be leaving for the Wall soon enough. You going to miss the only competition around here?” he prodded.

“It’s not your absence that I’m talking about. It’s Fathers.”

With a questioning step forward, Jon met Robb’s stride and stared at him.

“Fathers? Where is he going?”

Robb sighed. It was going to be a long conversation already. Might as well get some things out of the way.

“Because-” he said blatantly. “King Robert and the Lannisters ride for Winterfell as we speak. Before then, Benjen will be paying us a visit.”

“Uncle Benjen is coming?”

Without answering, Robb continued.

“Things are going to get awfully busy in Winterfell. Changes as well. Father and I will need your help, especially when he leaves.”

Jon stopped him.

“I don’t understand, Robb. What is he leaving for?” he asked a final time.

Starks never faired well in the South. The pain from the rebellion lingered in the hearts of all Northmen. Father just didn’t have the courage to tell his people the news he dreaded most. Robb didn’t need to be told, though. Even without telling anyone, once word gets out behind the timing of the King’s visit, the whole of the North will understand the implications. Eddard Stark does not want it, but duty will forbid him from abstaining.

“King’s Landing. He’s going to be named Hand of the King.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed.


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